Bethany Claire
by PhantomPhan63
Summary: Bethany Claire was just a normal girl, before her parents died when she was only five years old. Then she discovered she had a knack for deductions. Ten years later, she meets Sherlock Holmes, a man with the same knack for deducing as she does.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock

So I just recently finished watching Sherlock, and have fallen in love with it, so I decided to give writing some Sherlock fan fiction a try. So, I'm starting on season one episode one, but not at the beginning of the episode. Let's see how this works out, shall we?

Chapter 1

I stood in one of the rooms in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. On the floor in front of me was the body of a woman, just killed. I had seen this before. Years before. I made some deductions, and then took out my phone. I quickly called 911 and made my voice sound shaky like I was in shock.

 _"Hello?"_

"H-hello. P-p-please. I- I think I j-just found another s-suicide victim," I gasped out.

 _"Alright. Alright. Calm down, miss. Where are you?"_

"B-Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

 _"Alright. We'll be there as soon as we can."_

"Th-thank you," I said, hanging up.

I walked out of the room and out the front door of the building. I could hear the police sirens getting closer and closer. Swallowing, I forced myself to shake, taking choppy breaths and staring wide eyed at the fleet of police cars speeding towards me. A man got out of one of them and walked towards me.

"Hello, miss. My name is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Were you the one who called us?"

"Y-yes. Please, in here. She's just lying there on her stomach," I told him, turning and leading him inside.

When we reached the room, he took one look and began instructing the others to close off the area before heading over to his car.

"Where are you going?" a woman asked him.

"To get our favorite consulting detective," he replied, and drove off.

The woman turned to me.

"You look terrible. Come on," she said and led me over to an ambulance.

"This girl found the body. I think she's in shock," the woman told one of the personnel beside the ambulance.

I felt myself being lifted on the back of the ambulance and someone draped a blanket around my shoulders. A little while later, Lestrade returned, but he was alone.

"Where's the freak?" the woman who had brought me to the ambulance inquired.

"On his way," Lestrade replied, heading back into the building.

"Great, so I'm just supposed to wait here?" the woman muttered.

I smirked, but said nothing.

* * *

A tall man and another man holding a cane and limping walked toward the police tape. They seemed to be arguing about something. I glanced at the personnel beside me who had put the blanket around my shoulders, making a few last deductions. I looked over to see the taller man on our side of the police tape, holding it up so the other man could duck under.

The woman spoke to them a minute before the tall man noticed me as she was setting ready to lead them inside.

"Who's that?"

"Her? She's the one who found the body," the woman replied, "now come on. Lestrade's waiting."

"What's your name?" the man asked me.

"Bethany, sir. Bethany Claire."

"Do you have a last name, Bethany?"

"This is a waste of time," the woman huffed.

"Well?" the man inquired, ignoring her.

"I'd rather not say, sir."

"Would you like to come with us, miss Claire?"

"Yes, please," I replied, hopping down and taking off the blanket.

"She can't go. She's in shock," the personnel protested.

"Still having trouble with the wife?" I asked him.

He stared at me, dumbstruck, as I followed the trio into the building.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in," the woman spoke into her walkie talkie.

* * *

"Ah, Anderson. We meet again," the tall man addressed one of the detectives.

"It's a crime scene," the man, Anderson, said, "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," Sherlock replied.

"And is your wife staying away for long?" I asked him.

Anderson looked at me, dumbfounded.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out," Sherlock joined in.

"Somebody told you that," Anderson accused us.

"Your deodorant told us that," I told him.

"My deodorant?" Anderson asked incredulously.

"It's for men," Sherlock said in explanation.

"Well, of course it's for men. I'm wearing it."

"So's Sergeant Donovan," I shrugged.

"Ooh, I think it just vaporised. May I go in?" Sherlock inquired.

"Whatever you're implying-"

"We're not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," I interrupted him.

"And I assume she scrubbed your floors by the state of her knees," Sherlock added, smiling slightly.

"You'll need to wear one of these," Lestrade told us, interrupting our conversation. He held up a blue jump suit. He was wearing an identical one himself.

"Who's this?" he asked, spotting John.

"He's with me."

"But who is he?" Lestrade repeated.

"I said he's with me."

John grabbed one of the suits as Lestrade turned to me.

"What are you doing?"

"Sherlock invited me," I stated.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" John asked us, now dressed in the blue suit.

"So where are we?" Sherlock inquired, ignoring John's question.

"Upstairs," I informed him, equally ignoring John as I led the way.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade told us, he and John following.

"May need longer," Sherlock told him when he followed me into the room.

The woman was lying on her stomach, the letters R-A-C-H-E scratched into the floor board by her left hand. She had on an alarming pink coat on, as well as matching heels and lipstick.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details," Lestrade informed Sherlock. "Hasn't been here long. Bethany found her."

He was silent for a minute.

"Shut up," Sherlock told him.

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade whined.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

I snickered as Anderson appeared in the doorway.

"Got anything?"

"Not much," Sherlock informed him.

"She's German. Rache. It's German for revenge," Anderson told him, " she could be trying to tell us something. "

"Yes, thank you for your input," I told him, slamming the door in his face.

Sherlock chuckled softly.

"So she's German?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course not. She's from out of town, though," I told him.

Sherlock nodded, "Intended to stay in London one night before returning home to-"

"Cardiff," I finished. "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" Lestrade questioned us, confused.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?" I asked.

He stared at me and Sherlock added, "Of the message, of the body. Your a medical man."

* * *

A bad place to stop, but I wanted to update. I didn't like the previous version of this chapter because Bethany wasn't getting in on most of the action, so I switched it up a ton! I made sure to still not reveal Bethany's last name, though. I want it to be a surprise. Anyway, it's getting late, so I'm ending this here. Please, please, please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock

Hope you guys enjoy! Please review!

Chapter 2

Dr. Watson hesitated, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the closed door.

"We have a whole team right out outside."

I rolled my eyes as Sherlock sighed.

"They won't work with me. I'm breaking every rule letting you guys in here," he told him.

"Yes, because you need us," John said.

"Yes, I do," Sherlock agreed.

John sighed, exasperated.

"Dr. Watson!" I cried.

"Hm?" he inquired, and I smacked my palm to my forehead.

"Oh, do as they say," Lestrade told him.

Lestrade then opened the door for a moment, Anderson still standing outside.

"Anderson, keep everybody out for a couple of minutes," he instructed before shutting the door.

Sherlock stared at Watson.

"Well?"

"What am I doing here?" John asked him.

"Helping me prove a point."

"I thought I was helping pay the rent. What about her?"

"This is more fun and she's helping, too."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead!"

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock said patiently.

"Yeah Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit."

Sherlock shook his head, "Can't smell any alcohol on her."

"It could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs."

I made a small noise that went unnoticed by everyone except Lestrade, who looked at me strangely. I shook my head at him, and he interrupted John and Sherlock.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said. I need anything you got."

"Bethany, would you do the honors?" Sherlock asked me.

I nodded and started speaking my earlier deductions.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, I'm guessing media, by the alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today intending to stay in London one night from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade interrupted me.

"Yes. She's been married ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, if your just making this up-" Lestrade started, but I interrupted him.

"Her wedding ring; ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage, right there. Inside is shinier than the outside. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails! She doesn't work with her hands, so who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single for that amount of time-so more likely a string of them."

Sherlock nodded as John muttered, "Brilliant."

I looked over at him.

"Sorry," he said.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade questioned me.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock answered for me.

"It's not obvious to me," Lestrade told him.

"Dear me, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

Sherlock looked at me, and I launched into explanation.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp, she's been in heavy rain the last few hours; no rain anywhere in London during that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, but strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat hasn't dried. So where has there been heavy rain in the last few hours?"

I pointed at Sherlock, who showed a weather app open on his phone, open to Cardiff, revealing the information.

"Cardiff," I finished.

"Fantastic," John muttered.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked him.

"Sorry, I'll be quiet."

"No, it's fine," I told him.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked me.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer," I said.

"Find out who Rachel is," Sherlock added.

"She was writing Rachel?" John asked this time.

"No, she was writing an angry note in German! Of course she was writing Rachel, no other word it can be," I said, rolling my eyes at the stupidity of the question.

"Why did she wait until she was dying to write it?" Sherlock muttered to himself.

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade inquired.

I looked to Sherlock this time, "Want a turn?"

He nodded, and explained, "Tiny splash marks on her right calf not present on her left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand, by that splash pattern.

"Smallish case, going by the spread. Suitcase that size, woman this clothes-conscious could only be an overnight bag so we know she was staying one night."

"Where is it? What have you done with it?" I asked Lestrade.

"There wasn't a case," he replied.

I stared at him wide eyed, and Sherlock said, rather calmly, "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase," Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock wrenched the door open, shouting throughout the building.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sir, there was no case," someone told him.

Sherlock groaned.

"But they take the poison themselves, swallow the pills!"

I gasped at that, running past him and out the door, not caring about the rest of the conversation.

 _They take the poison themselves, swallow the pills..._

I knew how they were killed; how all of them were killed. I had seen it before, I just hadn't realized it until Sherlock had mentioned pills. I hurried down the street until I reached a busier area, hailed a cab, and climbed in.

"Where to, miss?"

"221B Baker Street, please," I told the cabbie.

We sped towards the home of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

I knocked on the door of 221B and was greeted by an elderly woman.

"Hello, I'm a friend of Sherlock's. May I come in?" I asked her.

"Of course, dear. I'm afraid Mr. Holmes is out for the moment though."

"That's fine. I can wait," I replied.

"Just upstairs," she told me.

"Thank you."

I hurried up the stairs and into a very messy flat. A couch was pressed against one wall and two chairs faced each other in front of a fire place. A table sat against the window with a music stand next to the other. A violin case rested against the stand. Every flat surface was covered in papers and files. There was even a skull on the mantle-a real one, I deduced. I quickly tidied up a bit, and then sat down on Sherlock's couch to wait.

A few minutes later, Sherlock walked in holding a pink suitcase.

"Bethany!"

"You found the case!"

We both smiled, laughing at the other before Sherlock set the suitcase down on a wooden dining chair.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned me.

"Giving you information. I've seen this before-the murders."

"Where?"

"Ten years ago. My parents both took pills and died. It wasn't of their own free will, technically."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"When I was five, my parents left me home with a babysitter. I watched them climb into a cab and drive away. They never came back. About an hour after they were supposed to be home, the babysitter called the police. Our parents were found fifteen minutes later in the opposite direction of the restaurant they were planning on heading to. The police decided it was suicide; they had swallowed pills.

"I was put in the foster system. Two and a half years later I ran away. I've been on my own ever since."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, you mentioned the victims are taking the poison themselves, swallowing a pill. I think it's that same pill that my parents took."

Sherlock stood, going into another room for a moment before returning with three patches.

"Can I lay down a moment? I need to think," he told me.

"Sure," I said, getting up and sitting in the chair he had just been occupying. He didn't comment, laying down and putting the patches on his arm. His fingers folded in a steeple and he closed his eyes.

While we had been talking, Mrs. Hudson, the woman who had answered the door, had come in and taken the skull from the mantle, much to Sherlock's protest. He and I now sat in silence, both deep in thought. I jumped and Sherlock opened his eyes when the door opened, revealing John back from wherever he had disappeared to.

* * *

Going to stop here, because this is getting rather long, it's getting late, and I wanted to get something new up. It's going to take me a while to post because I have school and musical rehearsals and all kinds of things that I'm trying to do at once. So don't freak out if you don't see anything up for a while. I'll try to get something up when I can, but I can't make any promises. Thank you for your patience. Please remember to review and let me know what you think. Thanks again!

-abbyjoy7


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